


A Lonely Cabin

by voiceless_terror



Series: Prompt Fills [12]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blind!Jon, Hurt/Comfort...ish, M/M, Memory Loss, Post Season Four, The Ritual Fails, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror
Summary: “Love, Tim...Tim’s not here. You know that, right?” Jon’s brow furrows and those cloudy, unseeing eyes don’t blink.Martin manages to interrupt Jonah's ritual. This is not without its consequences.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Prompt Fills [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921006
Comments: 16
Kudos: 271





	A Lonely Cabin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosy_cheekx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/gifts).



> For iamnmbr3 and balanced to a tea's prompt: "I can't see anything" with Jon and Martin!

“Martin, tell Tim I need that follow up as soon as possible.”

“Okay, Jon.”

Sometimes, it’s easier to play along. When his mother was deep in the throes of her dementia, they told him to stop correcting her, to stop asking what she remembered. There’s no use in making someone relive their trauma all over again, like a new and open wound.

Martin made that mistake with Jon.

“Love, Tim...Tim’s not here. You know that, right?” Jon’s brow furrows and those cloudy, unseeing eyes don’t blink.

“I- I don’t understand-”

“He’s...he died, Jon. Remember?” As soon as the words left his mouth he ached to take them back. It took all night to calm Jon down and even then he stormed off to their room, stumbling over unfamiliar terrain. 

He never really gets used to being blind. Mostly because he never remembers he _is._

Martin had been in the other room when Jon began to read the statement; the familiar, gloating cadences alerting him to Jonah’s attempted ritual. He managed to wrestle it out of Jon’s hands, trying to hold it out of his reach. The look in his eyes was wrong, filled with a sort of desperate, primal need as he screeched and yelled until Martin grabbed that lighter- the one with the strange, twisting web design- and set the thing alight.

Then, he went quiet. And Martin watched in horror as his eyes went from that strange, bright green to a cloudy white and Jon collapsed on the floor.

He hasn’t been the same since.

It’s like situations...meld together, for him. Like the Eye lets him see some things, but only in his mind and never the right ones. Sometimes he’s back in the archives, playing at being Head Archivist. Martin will set him in a chair, put some papers in front of him. Bring him tea. He hates these times worst of all. Because it means soon, he’ll have to feed him a statement. And Jon _hates_ statements now, but he needs them all the same. 

When things get bad, he sits him on the couch. Makes sure he’s comfortable, ignores his confusion as Martin starts to read a statement aloud. He holds down his hands when they inevitably move to claw at his eyes and cover his ears. But soon Jon settles and listens, like a child sitting rapt at a campfire while someone narrates a ghost story. He comes back to himself, remembers where he is. Apologizes, goes quiet. They get a few days of companionable grief- a sadness that comes with a shared history like theirs. Jon gets used to the cottage again and doesn’t flinch at the touch of Martin’s hands. It’s nice. And then it starts all over again.

Jon tries to light a cigarette and almost burns the house down. Martin doesn’t know how he found the lighter, tucked away as it is. And he doesn’t know where the cigarettes came from. Jon apologizes, face bewildered. “I didn’t mean to,” he stutters but Martin only sighs and tells him it’s okay.

Basira calls. No sign of Jonah, no sign of Daisy. She’ll send more statements when she can. Is everything alright? How’s Jon?

Everything’s fine. Jon’s fine.

Today he finds him outside, standing in the sun. Jon likes the heat. Just a few weeks back Martin remembers the two of them strolling through fields, basking in the sun. But now the light shines on his silver strands and he’s crying, tears streaming down his face in two neat little lines. He looks beatific, like some sort of blinded saint from a painting or a stained-glass window. 

“I can’t see,” he weeps as Martin gathers him in his arms and takes him inside. “I can’t see _anything.”_ When it's early days, Martin can remind him. Give him little nudges in the right direction and Jon puts the pieces together himself. It’s an odd, liminal space between awareness and illusion. Martin never quite knows where he stands at those moments. Jon pulls away and he feels desperately lonely once again. 

The house gets colder. Jon wanders. Martin makes tea and calls Basira and tells her everything’s fine. The cycle repeats.

Perhaps it's some sort of punishment. A divine retribution from the Eye. Martin heard enough of the statement to know Jonah’s machinations, what he’d been preparing Jon for. How much horror he holds with no way of releasing it. Jon makes no statements, records no follow ups. He just sits and lets Martin spoon-feed him these bits of knowledge that barely sustain him. The days he’s lucid remain few and far between now, each period of relief lasting only a day or two before he’s somewhere else entirely and Martin is alone again.

Maybe he should have let it happen, he thinks in his most desperate moments. What would the world be like? Would Jon still be Jon? Would he have him back, powerful and knowing but still _him?_ He curses himself for such selfish thoughts. The destruction of the world is not worth the happiness of two people. Damaged and barely living, at that.

When Martin wakes that night, the bed is cold.

That’s not right, he immediately thinks. This is their only sanctuary, where even in his far away moments Jon clings to his warmth, desperate for any kind touch. Martin will wake with Jon’s limbs entwined with his and raven hair in his face. But tonight it’s freezing and the bed is empty. There’s no Jon to be seen. 

He calls his name. No answer. The words echo and the house is unbearably big, cold and uncomfortable. The window’s open.

_When did he let the fog pour in?_

It’s all over the house, in every room and every corner and he’s back, back _there_ where Jon came for him and pulled him back but Jon’s not pulling him back this time, there’s just an endless sea of fog and he’s _gone_ -

It should feel comfortable, though. Gentle. But it doesn’t, because Jon is out there somewhere, lost and afraid. And Martin’s going to find him.

There’s a beach by the cottage. There shouldn’t be. He follows the coast for hours, calling Jon’s name until his voice grows hoarse. He can feel him in here, somewhere between the salt and the brine and the numbing sea spray. 

When he finally finds him he’s sitting on a rock, completely unresponsive, his eyes finally closed. He doesn’t turn at the sound of Martin’s voice, doesn’t so much as show a sign of living until Martin takes a cold hand in his, squeezing it tightly. 

“I can’t see you,” he finally whispers, his voice a shade of what it once was. Martin remembers the man who once strode on this beach, destroyed Peter Lukas in his seat of power and smiled gently at him, taking him by the hand and leading him out. “I can’t see you.”

“I know.” The words are a cold comfort, but he cannot give Jon his sight back. He can only give him this strange half-life, terrible as it may be. “But I can see _you.”_

Martin pulls him to his feet, tries to rub warmth back into his arms as the fog dissipates. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

“How?” Jon asks, though he follows Martin’s lead as he turns them toward the land. He stumbles but Martin catches him when he falls, urges him on.

“Don’t worry. I know the way.”

The cottage is still cold but the fog is gone. Martin lights a fire, throws a blanket around Jon’s shoulders and talks of nothing in particular. Jon has yet to smile but the color is returning to his cheeks and he leans into his side. It’s a start. Martin will call Basira tomorrow and give her an update.

Maybe he’ll be a bit more honest this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! A little angsty Jon/Martin for the day, lots of fun to write. (also iamnmbr3 if you have an ao3 I can link the gift to you as well!!)
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! Love to see your comments. You can reach me @voiceless-terror on tumblr for prompts/asks. Thanks for reading!! :)


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